


The Death of Logic

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes wasn't very busy, and hadn't been for a while, but a simple text message changed that. It was a little untimely -- but, then again, so is any time shortly after a psychological evaluation.</p><p>It calls him to 46 Culvert Road, and Culvert Road is a place where he's been before. The last time he was there, he failed; in his memories, it's not a pleasant place. </p><p>But, though his aversion to Culvert Road is strong, there are two magnetizing forces that make Sherlock realize that he can't give up. </p><p>Their names are James Moriarty and Molly Hooper, and in the end, the circumstances can only be good in one way and involving one person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Therapist

**Author's Note:**

> This fan fiction is based upon the BBC television show "Sherlock". There isn't a specific time in which this story is set; it's just one of those lagging times in which Sherlock has only a few problems which are too petty to deal with.
> 
> Enjoy, my fellow Sherlockians!
> 
> PS . . . Do realize that this novel is the FIRST in a series of about three books. The series, as a body, is one that I have chosen to call HOLMES.
> 
> So, here's the order --
> 
> 1 ) HOLMES -- The Death of Logic (PUBLISHING NOW)  
> 2 ) HOLMES -- Mental Implosion (COMING SOON)  
> 3 ) HOLMES -- A Child Covered in Scars (COMING LATER)

"Mr Holmes?" Sherlock didn't look up, but simply frowned at his lap. He didn't want a therapy session. He knew multiple sessions would do just about as much good as they did for John. And that wasn't much.

"Mr Holmes?" _The nurse is insistent_. Sherlock stood up and followed the nurse out of the waiting room and down a white corridor, muttering under his breath about the futility of Mrs Hudson's plan all the while.

-

Doctor Alexander White, the therapist who Sherlock had been forced into seeing, proved to be a thin, sallow-faced young man with a slight widow's peak framing his straight black locks and dark brown eyes that were intensely thoughtful. His skin was the color of coffee with a good amount of added cream.

"Hi," he said, his voice nearly down to a whisper.

_Foreign; doesn't want to reveal his accent. Sounds Argentinian, though. Not a Argentinian name; he must have an English father, or go by an English mother's maiden name._

"Hello."

"Mr Holmes, I'm Alexander White. You can call me Alex, if you would like to."

 _It's easier to ignore the fact that you're a psychotherapist if I do_. "Alex, you would know if you looked at my file that I have little faith in psychiatric therapy."

Unlike the last four therapists who Sherlock had seen, Alex didn't take this badly. Instead, he smiled broadly, showing bright white teeth, but it was wobbly.

_Very insecure, and trying valiantly not to show it._

"Hey, that's okay. What do you draw that from?"

"Prior experience." _Of a friend_.

"Oh. Well, there are some quacks out there, and I hope that by the end of the hour, you don't see me as one."

"Do other people see you as one?"

"No, not that I know of."

Sherlock smiled. Now he was in the interviewer's chair, where he liked to sit and could bide much more time than if he was in the seat of the person being interviewed, as he technically was. "That means that I probably won't consider you one."

An hour flew by as Alex and Sherlock continuously switched seats without moving anything but their mouths and eyes (except for some fidgeting on the parts of both men). They seemed, from a distance which would render their conversation inaudible, to be absorbed in a chattery banter. It was more of a psychological argument, though; Sherlock wasn't letting go of much, and what he was saying was already common knowledge.

"Mr Holmes --"

"Sherlock, please."

"Okay, Sherlock. Just call me when you want to set up your next appointment. I'll tell you what I have open.

"And before you go, would you tell me who got you here and why?"

Sherlock grimaced, but figured that he had nothing more to lose. "My landlady got me here. I'm a consulting detective, and some of the things I've seen are worse than what can be seen in Afghanistan or Iraq. A lot of it is actually directed at me, and it kills people who are . . . dear to me, as hard as that is to believe."

"You seemed like an . . . impersonal person to me, if that doesn't offend you. It's not meant to. You just seem like the type who is introverted and lives inside their head, and I understand why those people live that way." Alex paid no heed to Sherlock's mention of his profession in his reply.

"Really? How can you understand if you're not one of them?" _What_?

"One young woman, a university student by the name of Angeline Rhodes, told me that she lived with herself because everyone else was insufferable." Alex's lips curled up slightly at one side, and the ghost of a smile briefly flitted across his drawn face. "Including me. Which is why I have dental implants."

"She slugged you in the face?" _Probably with her knuckles_.

"Yeah. It was great to meet you, Sherlock, even if -- dare I say it -- you are a little stubborn."

 _He's embarrassed_.


	2. Superstition

Sherlock mulled over his psychiatric evaluation papers several weeks later. He'd been deemed sane, with a little bit of OCD and a little bit of drug addiction. _Nothing that I don't already know._

His phone vibrated in the pocket of his shirt, and he bent his arm and wrist into the contortion that is necessary to retrieve a small cell phone from the breast pocket of a button-down.

_Come quickly. You're going to like this -- and at the same time, you won't. 46 Culvert Road_

Sherlock grinned maliciously. "John!" he yelled, turning his head in the general direction of the staircase.

"Yeah?" John asked, shouting from upstairs. Ordinarily, this wouldn't have been possible, but after a particularly volatile shouting match he'd had with Mary, he had thought it best to stay with Sherlock for a few days.  

"Lestrade!"

Nothing more had to be said than the name of the DI. John ran down the steps in a flurry of blurred movement, tugging on his coat and coming dangerously close to losing his balance while doing so.

"Where?" he asked, halfway out of breath.

Sherlock didn't say a word; he just showed John the text message. John studied it for a moment. "I don't know where that is."

"Luckily for us, there's such a thing as a cab!"

John sighed. "Yeah, but normally I have a general idea of where it is we're going, and that prospect has just been obliterated."

Sherlock was halfway out the door when he replied. "There's not a place in the city that I don't know. Be confident!"

 _Culvert Road isn't in London. I know it isn't_. Sherlock kept that thought to himself as he hailed a cab.

It came roaring up just as John came running down to stand by Sherlock. "I'm afraid we're going out of the city," Sherlock said as he slid into the back seat.

The cabbie shrugged. "That's fine. What city, then?"

"I've been given a street address without the city name, but I know it isn't here."

"Say it."

"46 Culvert Road."

"Oh." The cabbie paused and thought for a moment. "I can't take you there."

"Is there a reason?"

"If I shared it, I'd lose my job. Now, get out of the cab!"

Sherlock, his brow knit in concentration and confusion, complied after letting John out first. The two men walked back into 221 B Baker Street in varying degrees of puzzlement.

 _It's still blocked off_?

"What are you two back again for? Forget something?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"Cabbie won't take us where we need to go," Sherlock muttered. He made a beeline for a box of nicotine patches that was sitting out on his desk and unbuttoned his shirt. Stripping it off and casting it onto the back of a chair, Sherlock stood in front of the box, the white shirt he'd had on underneath soaked in sweat. He opened the box shakily -- he obviously hadn't used a patch in a while, and this caused a momentary surge of pride to surface within John -- and stuck two of them on each arm. "This," he declared to the empty air, "is a four-patch problem."

John grinned, and once Sherlock lay on the couch and closed his eyes, he took Sherlock's phone from the pocket of the discarded button-down.

 _This is John. I've nabbed S's phone. Anyway, the cabbie won't take us to the address. What's so special_?

Lestrade replied in an instant. _The cabbies can't get you there. Their superstition is too strong_

 _Well, then what do we do_? John typed. Apparently, it wasn't within walking distance, since it was out of the city . . .

_Meet me down at the station, ASAP_

"Sherlock!"

"What?" He sounded groggy, and, quite frankly, a little drugged.

"Change of plans. We're meeting Lestrade at the station."

"How do you know this?"

"Your phone."

"Oh. I didn't think you'd be smart enough."

John didn't admit it, but Sherlock's semi-playful remark stung a little.


	3. Having Fun?

"Hey. Glad you could make it," Lestrade said, his head snapping up after it had been lolling back like he was in his office chair.

"What is it about Culvert Road this time?" Sherlock asked. He wasn't in the mood for casual small talk; he wanted to know what was going on.

"It's basically the Bermuda Triangle of cab accidents."

"That I knew."

"Great," John said, rolling his eyes. "And ships still sail in the Bermuda Triangle!"

Sherlock gave him a pointed glance, and from then on, a rather ticked-off John kept his mouth shut.

Lestrade grinned, but his silent mirth was quite clearly strained. "Yes, well, I don't mean that it's all accidental. There's somebody there who shoots at the cabs."

Sherlock flushed angrily, and John deduced that the slightly angry-looking man must have tried to eliminate that threat before and failed.

"Now, Sherlock," Lestrade said, seeing his expression. "Even you can't always succeed."

"People died," Sherlock managed to grind out. "Twenty-four of them died while I was on that case, and more die every day."

John had never seen Sherlock seething like this. Quite frankly, it unnerved him. "Sherlock --" he began to say, but was abruptly silenced by a quick shake of Lestrade's head.

"Sherlock," Lestrade whispered, laying his hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder. He had to strain to carry out the action, but it was done anyway. "Sherlock, it's okay. That case is impossible."

With a few deep breaths and the employment of a shakily handled cigarette lighter, Sherlock calmed. "Are you going to take us in a squad car?"

"Yeah. Otherwise, we'll never get there."

"So, what's going on?" John asked. Sherlock, to his credit, remained silent, waiting for Lestrade's answer.

"That's . . . classified. And as we share this building with a branch of a bank, we can't count on staying unheard by those who should not hear us. I can explain it all to you when we get there."

"Fair enough," Sherlock ground out, his teeth clenched.

-

Yellow tape was strung liberally around 46 Culvert Road. The sunlight glared off it, forcing Sherlock, Lestrade, and John to shield their eyes to avoid getting blinded.

The place was a wreck, with a caved-in roof. Weeds had taken over the small plot that had apparently once been occupied by flowers. Sherlock consulted Google, as he knew little about this particular residence. Wikipedia didn't help him, but Google Maps and an underground source of information, after joining forces, gave him what he needed.

Lestrade seemed to think that the crime scene was a safe place to talk once they were waved through by Donovan, who gave Sherlock a stern look and muttered "Freak," coldly under her breath as he walked by. The Detective Inspector was about to speak when Sherlock began a completely different -- and potentially incriminating -- conversation.

"Having fun with Anderson, are you, Donovan?" Sherlock asked, his lips curled slightly in a haughty smile.

"How can you tell this time?" Donovan put her hands on her hips, jutting out her left hip rather suggestively toward Anderson.

"First of all, you're not denying it; second of all, you reek of that God-awful cologne that Anderson is so fond of wearing. It's a shame; your regular perfume smells quite nice."

Anderson was within earshot at the moment, and blushed to the tips of his ears. Donovan turned upon Sherlock with a half-snarl emitting from her mouth and a sneer twisting her soft lips.

"Now, now, Donovan," Lestrade said. "Do you want me to put you back behind a desk? On the one hand, you might get your curves back --"

"Detective Inspector!" Anderson said, at once trying to change the subject and draw Lestrade's flighty attention span back to the case. "Sally, you can't take them seriously --"

"But you do!" said Donovan, but she turned, and, since she had been found out, pressed her lips against Anderson's. Only Sherlock, with the excellent sense of hearing that he had, heard her murmur, "It's okay. Pay them no heed." As Lestrade, John, and Sherlock began to walk away, Anderson replied, "No, Sally, it's not okay. And I can't do that."

Sherlock smiled, laughing uproariously inside his head. John raised his eyebrows, but began to smile as well. When Sherlock smiled, it was infectious like an epidemic; unfortunately, it didn't affect as many people.


	4. Speak the Name

"This case, I hope, will intrigue you, Sherlock."

"Go on. I have better things to do than listen to your brainless chatter; this had better be worth it."

Lestrade sighed and suppressed an urge to roll his eyes. "Moriarty." He knew that he had only to speak the name to get Sherlock listening.

"And? What the hell is he doing here?"

Lestrade suppressed a satisfied smile, glad that his tactic had not failed. "Setting a trap."

"And you want me to spring it." _The bastard_.

"Several murders have been linked to him. And he has a hostage."

 _And you won't reveal his or her identity to me_.

"Unfortunately," Lestrade continued, "I can't tell you who Moriarty's hostage is, with the fear that the knowledge may cloud your judgment. I'm sure we all want your mind preserved."

_We do, but if I don't know who the hostage is, I can't tell you why Moriarty chose the particular person. But I can take a guess, and I might as well. If you think that knowledge may cloud my judgment, as you so metaphorically say, then the hostage must be someone that I know. You must be afraid that I will sail into a flying passion, when in fact I likely don't give a flying . . ._

Sherlock was distracted from his thoughts by John. "Why not have me go? You don't worry about my judgment, do you?"

"No!" exclaimed Sherlock. "Moriarty knows just as well who you are as he knows who I am. If you're aiming to take the risk, like I know you are -- and I do thank you for your devotion and persistence -- it won't work. Moriarty wants me. He always does."

John sighed, and ducked his head. _As embarrassed as Alex_. "I thought --"

"I know what you thought. You thought that maybe, for once, you could do what I do and face down Moriarty."

"Yes," John said after a few seconds.

"John, forget about it. I mean it. I need to do this." He stood up and walked away from the curb, literally leaving Lestrade and John in the dust. They'd been standing at 45 Culvert Road, but Sherlock crossed the street with barely a glance at where he was actually headed.

"Ten minutes, Sherlock! Ten!" Lestrade called, but he had little hope that the consulting detective would be listening to him.

And he wasn't. Jumping up the four porch steps two at a time and shoving Anderson aside, Sherlock managed to push open the creaking, ancient door and slip into the house.

Sherlock paused once the door slammed shut behind him. He heard no unnatural sounds; he could hear the curtains in the parlor swishing at the mercy of the breeze and the creaking of the floorboards when he accidentally shifted his weight, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. _How could Moriarty be here? I don't hear him at all. If he's here, he's being too subtle._

He noticed the first clues on the stairs. There were dark droplets staining the wood planks, which were already slightly darkened with age. Bending down, he sniffed at a large droplet on the bottom step. The sharp, metallic tang of iron wafted into his nostrils. _Blood. Relatively fresh._

A couple of steps further on, Sherlock saw what looked to be an innocuous little beige-colored thread, but still looked suspicious when there was nothing made of hemp or rattan in sight. _Anything of an organic material would have rotted away completely by now, since this place has been abandoned so long_. Picking up the thread, Sherlock rubbed his fingers over it. It was slightly coarse, and when he pulled it, it proved to be pretty strong. _Rope. Hemp rope_. _A struggle occurred here after the kidnapping._ Whoever Moriarty had taken hostage into this wreck of a place had obviously not given up without a fight. Which didn't make the outlook optimistic on whether he or she was still alive. Moriarty tended to -- ahem -- dispose of the fighters.

Sherlock carefully walked up the stairs, keeping his feet closer to the wall so that the stairs (hopefully) wouldn't creak. But Moriarty must have really wanted him there, as he'd gone up and down that side of the stairs many times in order to weaken them. He'd prepared. _Oh, well. He had to be ready for me eventually_. Sherlock winced as the stairs creaked with every step he took. He moved toward the middle, hoping to undo the damage he'd done -- of course knowing how naive that sounded -- and walk in silence, but that was not to be. Every part of every stair creaked. Sherlock didn't have the option of silence or the advantages of surprise or stealth anymore. He sighed, shook his head, and then proceeded to take the stairs two at a time, just as he had done with the porch stairs.

At the top of the stairs, Sherlock turned to the right. That was one of Moriarty's flaws; he liked the first room on the right in a hallway. The door of the room fitting these specifications was slightly ajar, and the doorknob was coated in a rusty stain which Sherlock knew -- too well -- to be blood. Not desiring to touch blood, Sherlock nudged open the door with his left foot.

He did not like the sight that met his eyes.


	5. Like a Street Cat

"Well, hello! Fancy seeing _you_ here!"

Sherlock clenched his teeth. "Get out of here, Jim."

"You're skimping on the formalities, Sherlock! I never would have imagined _you_ doing that!"

"Would you please stop emphasizing the pronoun you use to refer to me? It's becoming quite a tiresome thing to hear, and I haven't heard it more than twice."

"I've become _tiresome_?" James Moriarty pressed a hand to his chest in a mocking swoon.

Sherlock wasn't really paying attention to Moriarty at the moment. Rather, he was paying attention to Moriarty's hostage, who was hog-tied to a chair that stood a mere half of a meter behind him. His eyes widened and his pale complexion became paler even as his countenance shifted dramatically from confident to sorrowful when he realised her identity.

The hostage was Molly Hooper.

Molly Hooper, the young woman in the lab whose advances were not driven by a desire for friendship, but by attraction. Molly Hooper, the young woman whom he had (mostly) successfully ignored during his years of working alongside -- and, in a way, above -- Lestrade. Molly Hooper, the young woman whom he'd very casually, without any conscious awareness, friend-zoned for the past few years. Molly Hooper, the young woman who still tried every single day to get Sherlock to notice her, whether it be with new lipstick or an offer of coffee.

Molly Hooper.

Tears began to form in Sherlock's brilliant blue eyes. Silently cursing himself, he struggled to blink them away, but it was still too late; Moriarty had seen what he must have believed to be impossible.

"Oh, did poor Sherlock's drink from the Fountain of Youth suddenly take effect and turn him into a pathetic little baby? At least it returned his emotions to him, am I right, Mol?"

But Molly was gagged, and could not reply beyond what sounded like muffled curses. Obviously, though, she took offence either at Moriarty's jab at Sherlock or the nickname he had given her, for while he had his back turned, she managed to extract one foot from the ropes that bound her to a chair and aim a sharp kick in between his legs. Moriarty howled in angered pain, and seemed to forget all about Sherlock as he turned on Molly, pulling out his pistol from a pocket in his jacket and leveling it at her face. Molly's eyes widened, and she squirmed, but she couldn't free herself any more than she already had.

If Sherlock had been angry before, he was a raging bull now. He lunged at Moriarty without more than a single thought. _Never mind the gun_. Afterwards, he thought about his craziness, trying to justify it. There was only one thing he could say (or, actually, think). _It wasn't loaded; Moriarty was bluffing_.

Moriarty swatted at Sherlock's fist, but he didn't change its velocity or momentum. Sherlock's fist connected with Moriarty's jaw with the sound of breaking bone. After gasping, Moriarty didn't fight back -- at least, not for the moment. He spat a nasty gob of spit, blood, and a couple of teeth which Sherlock had knocked loose onto the ratty carpet. Promptly, a group of flies began to buzz excitedly around the mess.

Pocketing his pistol, Moriarty laughed, showing two gaps where teeth should have been on his bottom jaw. He gingerly probed the spot where Sherlock, who was now panting with exertion and anger, had punched him, wincing when he prodded a place that hurt.

"Why didn't you do what I told you to do, Jim? Why did you stay? And, most importantly, why did you do this?"

"The great Sherlock Holmes has to ask for my motives? My, someone has to mark the time! And date! And place! Oh, happy, happy day!"

In his pride, Moriarty tilted his head back and threw his arms up, grinning maniacally _with his eyes closed_. Sherlock took the opportunity which was presented to him in Moriarty's moment of stupidity.

Slinking around like a street cat, Sherlock carefully untied the gag from around Molly's mouth. When Moriarty turned, Sherlock had taken out his Swiss Army knife, and promptly drove it into the man's thigh. As Moriarty fell with a pained yelp and quite a few unprintable curses, Sherlock continued his rescue mission. "I needed more time, Jim," he muttered while sawing away at Molly's bonds. "And you were in the way. You're such a fool; I wonder how ordinary people -- like you seem to have deteriorated to -- stay inside their little heads. It must be dreadfully boring."

Molly's eyelids were fluttering when her ropes fell away; obviously, her gag had been drugged. When she'd tried to yell, she had taken in some of whatever soaked the rag -- likely chloroform -- through her mouth, but it was a small enough amount for it not to take effect until now. Adapting quickly to the situation, Sherlock eased her out of the chair, letting her body slide to the floor.


	6. "Nothing Big"

As a final blow to Moriarty's dignity for the day, Sherlock trussed him up with the ropes he'd used to hog-tie Molly. Then he ran, his long legs spreading nearly horizontally as he sprinted down the stairs and out the door, catching Anderson in the face as it swung outwards.

"Oh, boy," Lestrade muttered, seeing the detective running like a fleeing criminal.

Sherlock was gasping slightly when he came to a stop -- unlike a fleeing criminal, who would probably run to the nearest Tube station if he or she had an ounce of common sense -- in front of Lestrade and John. "I have him incapacitated. And we have a casualty. Nothing big. And we have one unconscious."

"How many were in there?" John asked. "I'll look at the casualty. What is it?"

"Just two. Moriarty was the casualty. He took an unfortunate Swiss Army knife to the thigh, but as he was alive several minutes later when I left him, I don't believe the artery was hit. I have him tied. Molly's alright -- I think there was chloroform on her gag. I didn't smell it -- I didn't exactly want to be lying on that floor next to a homicidal psychopath."

"How do you know it was a Swiss Army knife? That's awfully specific."

John laughed, causing Lestrade to look askance at him and Sherlock to smile slightly with what John correctly assumed was a bit of pride.

"What is it, John?" Lestrade asked. "What's so funny? Seriously, you two are messed up in the head. I should have taken Donovan's advice and never told either of you about this."

"You know that I would find out eventually. You can't hide a kidnapping, especially not here," Sherlock said. "But I can answer your questions about the humor of this situation, unless -- John? Do you wish to take a shot at this?"

John had managed to regain his composure by this point. "It was Sherlock's knife. That's how he knows!"

Shrugging, Sherlock held out his hands, palms up, his wrists parallel.

"My God, Sherlock, was that necessary?!" Lestrade cried. Disgust and astonishment vied for a place in his expression.

"No. It was just petty vengeance for all the times he's cheated me in the past."

"And now you have him trussed and in pain. That's just bloody wonderful." Lestrade sighed. "If you really want me to cuff you, Sherlock, I sure as hell will." The DI took out plastic cuffs from his pocket, but Sherlock retracted his wrists so quickly that they blurred. Then a spark of realization lit his eyes, and he ran off again.

"Moriarty's yours!" Sherlock shouted. John sighed, and trudged after him.

 

-

 

It took several hours for Molly to wake up after being collected by Sherlock from the house and brought away in an ambulance.

"Oh, good!"

It took her several moments for her to recognize the voice as being that of Lestrade's.

"Hello," she said, and realized that her voice rasped. Lestrade handed her a glass of water.

"As far as the forensics team could determine, you were chloroformed. Sorry about that. Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes." Molly rubbed her wrist, and realized that it was raw from the rope. She drank the water slowly. It was very cold, and burned her throat when she swallowed.

"You have the week off, Miss Hooper."

"Thank you, Greg --" Molly had realized a while ago that she could effectively charm higher-ups by using their first names -- "but no. I can come back tomorrow. I've already taken too much time off this year."

"All right. Come in late or leave early if you need to."


	7. A Drop of Blood

Nothing interesting happened that week at Scotland Yard. Yes, Anderson and Donovan were spotted kissing once or twice; and, of course, as was his habit, James Moriarty made a run for it and was not caught. That wasn't even a spectacle anymore. Moriarty had too many tactics and too many assistants to help him for him to get caught. 

This put Sherlock in a most decidedly bad mood -- it was like he had his own personal storm cloud, the kind that could be seen floating over the heads of angry or depressed characters in old childrens' cartoons. Nobody in London went near him for a few days; John had reconciled with Mary, and had gone home. It was considered very dangerous and on the verge of a suicidal action to approach Sherlock when he was in a mood like that.

The next Monday, however, Molly got an interesting visit.

She'd been going over finance spreadsheets in her cramped, sweltering office. It seemed that, though she was overqualified to do them, she was given all of the stupid little things like finances to deal with. Maybe it was hazing. Or maybe it was just that nobody else wanted to do anything like that, but she was too nice to let it go undone. The second possibility was much more plausible, although . . . 

Molly had been rubbing her eyes when she heard a knock on her office door. Pulling on her lab coat -- in the office, she went without it, as she was alone there and would get too hot otherwise -- she stood up and walked the metre that was required to open the door.

"How in the world did you get in here?! Bloody hell!"

Sherlock Holmes chuckled, and held out his hand. Dangling from one finger on a silver carabiner was Molly's ID, which she had to scan in order to get into the building. She didn't take it. "Go on, Molly," he said, chuckling again -- this time, a slight smile remained on his face, curling the corners of his lips ever so slightly. It was quite attractive to Molly, but she restrained herself. It was not easy. She was snapped back to the real world when he spoke again. "You know, it can't bite you."

"Thanks." Molly held out her hand, and Sherlock dropped the ID into it. "May I ask where you found this?" she asked.

"Outside, right by the scanner. You probably thought that you'd put it back in your trouser pocket, but you dropped it instead. Believe me, even I have done it before."

Molly laughed. She noticed that Sherlock had dark circles beneath his eyes, and she could see a bloodstain on his finger, like a drop of blood had rolled there from his upper arm and he hadn't bothered to wipe it off. Figuring that he might possibly be impressed, if only a little bit, she casually made the observation. "You've been being bad, haven't you? You've been sad and angry, so you've been lapsing into old -- and, dare I say it, unhealthy -- habits. I don't think you're planning to tell John about this one."

Sherlock cringed. It was the only answer Molly needed, and it was good that she could read body language, as he said nothing in response. After a moment, he seemed to have worked out a reply. "Very astute. Very sharp."

"Care for coffee?" Molly asked, wanting to change the uncomfortable -- at least for Sherlock -- topic.

"Please. And don't run off like you always do. Follow me."

Molly raised her eyebrows, but managed to keep her questions and comments to herself.

They left the building, and finally, she spoke. "Where might we be going?"

"A café. Where else?"

Molly was floored. She wasn't prepared for what had come out of Sherlock's mouth after having spent years running off to the break room when he was in the midst of one of his ugly experiments -- the time when he flogged corpses to see whether contusions still formed -- or blood flowed -- came to mind. "Oh . . ."

"Is that perhaps a problem?" Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned towards Molly as he asked the question, and Molly almost walked into him.

"No, no . . . Just surprising, that's all." She bit her tongue as soon as she spoke.

"Can't we all be a little surprising sometimes without garnering so much suspicion?!" Sherlock briefly threw his arms up to the overcast sky, and then pulled them back down when he suddenly discovered with his hands that it was, in fact, pretty bloody cold. At the same time, he also discovered that the heat of Molly's office was quite deceptive, and was yet quite obviously the effect of either an overachieving heating system or an equally inadequate air conditioning system. Blinking rapidly a few times, he shoved his hands back down deep into the pockets of his trench coat, triggering laughter from Molly, who bashfully covered her mouth with her hand.

"Oh, no, don't do that!" Sherlock said. "You're not letting me see you smile!" After that unexpected outburst -- apparently unexpected by both of them, if Molly was to go by the absolutely baffled expression on his face -- a slow blush began to add some color to his pale complexion. Of course, this made Molly laugh harder, and this time, both of her hands were in her pockets rather than anywhere near her mouth.

 

-

 

When they arrived at the café, Sherlock stopped before walking inside. "What do you like in your coffee?"

"Oh, you're buying?"

"Yes, of course. That's the etiquette, isn't it? Or is chivalry no longer in fashion?"

Molly pondered the last question for a moment, then nodded and pulled her wallet from her pocket, ready to hand Sherlock a ten-pound note. Before she could even open it, however, she felt -- rather than saw -- a hand close over hers, and push hers back to her pocket. "I aim to bring back a fashion," Sherlock murmured, and extracted his own noticeably thicker wallet from his pocket.

"You never answered my first question."

"Oh. Just a packet of sugar, please."

Sherlock ordered and paid for their cups of coffee, and they elected to sit inside, as an evil wind was beginning to blow, and it carried stinging drops of autumn rain.

Molly thought it quite a shame that she was so giddy that she didn't remember the conversation they had; all that she remembered was that both she and Sherlock chuckled a lot, occasionally drawing stares from others in the café -- but neither one of them cared.


	8. Four-Thirty in the Morning

Sherlock woke up to a ringing cellular -- his, to be exact. "Bloody hell, Mycroft," he growled. "I hope you realize that you awoke me. What time is it?"

"Find that out yourself, dear brother." Sherlock could almost hear Mycroft's smirk over the transmission. Glancing over at the alarm clock beside his bed, he discovered that it was four twenty-five in the morning.

"Okay. What do you want with me, Mycroft? If it's urgent enough to bother me, you wouldn't have taken the time to be snarky. Or have you changed that much?"

"I did what you asked me to."

"Where is he?" _Hopefully lying face-down in the Thames with trash and sludgy water in his lungs._

"Open your e-mail."

"Why can't you be direct just once?"

"Phreaking."

"That's not an excuse."

"Why not?"

"Because sending me something by e-mail only eliminates the possibility of classic phreaking. There isn't protection against Van Eck phreaking. The only prevention of all kinds of phreaking is talking, but then you are vulnerable to eavesdropping. I know you're not standing outside my room, though -- first of all, I would hear your voice; second, the door is locked and I know you don't have the key; third, you wouldn't have sent me an e-mail; and fourth, you're just too lazy." Sherlock sighed; his throat was dry, and it hurt to speak. The autumn chill seemed to have bestowed a sore throat upon him.

The phone clenched to his ear, Sherlock stood up and walked to to the kitchen, searching for throat drops.

"I am not lazy, Sherlock. I simply don't do anything that isn't absolutely necessary."

"I applaud your efforts to justify your actions -- or lack thereof -- but you didn't defend yourself on the other account. Please tell me that you do know what Van Eck phreaking is."

For a long moment, there was only silence on the other end, and Sherlock chuckled before taking the opportunity to unwrap a throat drop and get it tucked away in his mouth.

"I don't," Mycroft muttered, his voice cold.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and when he exhaled, the air around him took on the fragrance of cherries and menthol. "Van Eck phreaking," he said, "is the process of detecting the electromagnetic emissions of a CRT or LCD display in order to eavesdrop."

"I'm going to guess, then, that your laptop has an LCD display."

"Yes. It's not an ancient machine, Mycroft -- nor is it one that was just released to the public outside of Japan today."

"Why outside of Japan?"

"I was making a stereotypical joke which quite obviously went right over your fat, round head."

"Four-thirty in the morning seems to be the worst time to talk to you. Thank God I'm done."

"You are? Good." Sherlock ended the call without another word and placed his cellular on the table with an air of stinging finality.

He opened up his laptop, waiting patiently as it groaned in its efforts to boot. It sounded like a woman in labor to him, except in infinitely less pain. Sherlock had always been entertained by those machines which could be personified in unattractive ways. Logging in, he opened up his internet browser -- Google Chrome, of course. John used Internet Explorer, but John was John. Sherlock was Sherlock, and he had a passionate hatred for Internet Explorer.

After studying that day's Google Doodle for a moment -- it was some scientist's birthday -- he opened his e-mail to find a new message from Mycroft as well as a new one from John. For the moment, he decided to ignore the one from John and opened up Mycroft's. It didn't have a subject or content -- all it contained were a couple of attachments. He was in a hurry. _Knowing my brother, he was simply in a hurry to get back to bed._

Sherlock clicked on the first of the three links, and a new window opened. He watched the video that started twice, trying to determine where it was filmed and the approximate time. _Near the Eye. I can see its reflection on the water. It's from high up -- what point on the bridge? Was it taken from the bridge? No. It seems too high even for that. From the Eye itself? Maybe._ He shook his head. He was sure that his drowsiness was doing a number on his thought processes, and resolved to do more with the video later.

Minimizing that, he moved on to the second link, and soon found that it led to a photograph. It was hazy, but that was to be expected -- like the video, it was taken with a security camera, and security cameras were not often very good cameras. They did their job, but nothing more -- and sometimes, in unfortunate instances, plenty less. The picture was clear enough to determine where it was taken, which was at the entrance to the line for the Eye. _Why would he be there? That is a fantasy of a little child, not of a grown man. Has he degraded that far since I last faced him?_

 _He's not giving me a challenge._ The realization came quickly to Sherlock. It was an ugly one. _I must be over-thinking this._  The only thing that was truly confusing him at this point was the fact that it had been so easy -- and then the man had cut and run, likely with the help of an assistant, and been untraceable until Mycroft had rigged the cameras of London to send him snapshots and video clips of James Moriarty. Some of the shots had turned out to be other people, but mostly the facial-recognition software that Mycroft had outfitted the cameras with worked.

The third link was another video, and it showed where Moriarty had gone throughout the city. Sherlock realized that he hadn't needed to deduce where the picture and the first video were from, as the video was made up only of a point moving on a map. Apparently, Mycroft had finally decided to give his brother a break.

 


	9. The Room Upstairs

"Molly, I'm sorry, but you can't live here anymore."

"Pardon?" Molly's eyes widened. She knew what Amelia had said -- she just wasn't willing to believe it.

"I'm getting married, and, well, Lee's lease ends in a week --"

"I've got it, I've got it. Let me find a place to live, okay?!"

"Whoa, Molly --" Amelia backed away. "Are you . . . ?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry." Molly turned her back on Amelia, who had been her flatmate for two years, and walked out of the flat they had shared.

-

Sherlock greeted Molly with a cup of coffee from the café they had gone to a few days before.

"Thank you. Good morning, Sherlock."

"Good morning, Molly."

Molly took a deep breath.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, yeah. It's just . . . Sherlock, I got kicked out of a flat that I shared with a friend, and . . . Can I perhaps stay at your flat until I find a new place?" Her last few words came out quickly, and she winced as soon as they left the tip of her tongue.

Sherlock hesitated, but then responded haltingly. "Yes, you can. Yes."

"Thank you." Molly wanted badly to hug him or kiss him, but she felt like he wouldn't take that well. She certainly would, but then, she was herself, and he was Sherlock. She was honestly surprised that he had even allowed her to stay, and she hoped that wouldn't change.

-

"Molly, you can have the room upstairs." John's room. But that's all right. He won't mind.

"Thank you, but . . ."

"The only other room is mine." Sherlock forced himself to laugh, but he was very uncomfortable. Forcing himself to briefly experience a different emotion was a welcome distraction.

"Oh, no. That's not what I meant. I'll just sleep on the futon downstairs so I don't bother you. I just don't want to be in your way, Sherlock."

But I don't want you out of my way. "Come now, Molly. You should stay upstairs."

Apparently, there was a trace of doubt in Sherlock's voice, because Molly replied, "Sherlock, I'll just sleep down here. I'm fine with that." While she spoke, she gestured around her in a sweeping motion of her arms.

What she said was a lie. She didn't want to either sleep downstairs or in the upstairs room; she wanted to sleep in Sherlock's room. But she killed her own dreams -- she knew how absurd a request that would be.

"Molly, I insist." Without allowing her to continue the argument, Sherlock gently pried her fingers from the handle of her suitcase and took it up the stairs. As he thought she would, she followed him. He'd won -- for the moment, at least. Molly was more than content with letting him win. He just wouldn't be a winner for very long.

-

Molly was, to be frank, desiring some sort of positive attention. She wanted that positive attention from Sherlock, and though she felt guilty for doing it, she planned how to do so.

Her plan was quite simple, and it reeked of deception. She had to count on Sherlock's tendency towards insomnia -- which would be even stronger in the thick of this little case which involved them both. Molly flattered herself thinking that Sherlock was mostly suffering from anxiety because the case had, at its beginning, involved her -- and he had, for a bit.

That night, Molly made sure that Sherlock thought she was asleep in the upstairs room. And she was. Sort of.

 


	10. Dark Circles

Around two in the morning, Molly woke up.

"Bollocks."

She'd slept, which she hadn't meant to do -- it was a Saturday night, so she didn't have to worry about sleep deprivation. But her plan had not involved actually falling asleep. She hoped she hadn't missed the time in which Sherlock's insomnia kicked in.

The bed in the upstairs room was comfortable. Too comfortable for my purposes at the moment, Molly thought, the tone of that thought quite bitter. Standing up, she walked quickly and lightly to the door, avoiding spots in the floor which she had heard creak earlier in the day. Pushing the door open -- she'd left it cracked so as to avoid the problem of turning the knob without its internal mechanisms squeaking -- she carefully made her way down the stairs, pausing briefly in front of Sherlock's room and then continuing on until she reached the futon.

Settling down on the futon, Molly pulled a blanket from where it was draped over an armchair and pulled it over herself. She half-slept for about an hour before her plan began to work.

Molly was alerted by the sound of creaking floorboards, and her eyes snapped open. The futon was at an optimal angle -- she could clearly see Sherlock come down the stairs rubbing his eyes and looking a mess. His curls were unkempt, and dark circles unattractively highlighted his sharp cheekbones. He looked eerily like a walking corpse. Molly closed her eyes, hoping he hadn't seen that they were open.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows when he saw where Molly was. _Does she somnambulate? I will ask her when she wakes._

A thin smile turned up the corners of his mouth. Sherlock was quite amused by the situation -- Molly had been determined to get her way, even if she was in less comfort in her success. He sighed softly, and then gently slid one  arm behind her knees and one just below her shoulders. He carried her, blanket and all, back up the stairs, laying her on the bed.

"I know you're not asleep, Molly. Did you think I wouldn't see that your breathing was too fast for you to be asleep? It was actually very fast even for one who was awake, from which I arrive at a conjecture -- you're nervous. Why are you scared, Molly?"

With a disappointed sigh, Molly glanced up at Sherlock, and then returned her slightly dismal gaze behind her eyelids.

"Please don't ignore me."

"I thought my plan wouldn't work," she murmured. "I was wrong, but I don't know what will happen next. That is what makes me nervous."

"Don't be afraid of the future. We'll talk at some point tomorrow. Please sleep, and please don't do that again." Sherlock's voice caught slightly in his last words, but Molly didn't mention it. She never did. He left, hopefully to return to his own room to sleep once more.

-

"I hate to intrude upon you, Sherlock, but how is it that you came upon so much money?" Lestrade asked.

The two men were seated in the break room in the laboratory. They had been talking for a short time as they waited for the forensics department (namely Anderson, who was in charge of the incompetent lot for some unfathomable reason) to get results on prints they had found at 46 Culvert Road that weren't Moriarty's.

"Multiply that amount by four, and you'll know how much our entire family got."

"Why by four?"

"There were four beneficiaries that my father gave money to in his will --Thomas, Mycroft, Clara, and myself."

"Who are Thomas and Clara?"

Sherlock's expression darkened. "My eldest brother and his wife," he whispered. Immediately thereafter, he shuddered like a dry leaf in a winter wind. "Terrible people."

"Wonderful."

"It's been twelve years since I spoke to them -- coincidentally," he said, with a hint of mirth in his voice, "it's been twelve years since my father's death."

"Ah. Your father -- was he a good man?"

"I don't know. I never met him. He ran off when my mother said she was pregnant a third time. I think he was done. I don't particularly blame him -- even I can't be around Bethany Holmes for overly long, and she's my mother."

Lestrade didn't say that Sherlock's last remark was cruel. In his case, it would be hypocritical to do so -- he thought the same about his own mother. Instead, he remained silent.

Anderson came running in, breathless. "Detective Inspector, the samples are ready."

"Are you coming, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"No. I have business to deal with," he replied, which caused both Lestrade and Anderson to blink with surprise.

"Alright. Come if you'd like." The two exited the breakroom chatting and exchanging theories on the case.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Sherlock said, "I know you're here."

Sally Donovan stepped out from behind the a door at the other end of the room with a sour expression on her face.

 


	11. An Action He Would Surely Regret

"How much did you hear?"

"Plenty," Donovan replied, her tone flat and ambiguous. "Enough to form a theory."

"Pray tell what is that theory?"

"Your father knew what a monster his youngest son would be. I bet in his eyes, Thomas was the golden child. I suppose he knew what you would become even before he was fully aware of your existence."

Sherlock clenched his teeth. He remembered the photographs he had seen in the house he'd lived in as a child -- a large amount of them had been of his father praising Thomas, playing with Thomas, holding Thomas as an infant . . . His shoulders shook slightly. That part of what Donovan had said was true, and for some reason it hurt more to hear it from her than from himself.

"I will bash your head against the wall." The threat, though delivered in a low, cold growl, was insubstantial, but Sherlock's mind just wasn't working. He couldn't think of anything else rather than pure physical punishment. Rage surged through his veins, and his adrenaline pumped at what felt like warp speed.

"Is that all you've got? Well, do it, then!" Donovan cried, the volume of her voice increasing with every word.

Sherlock turned around, facing away from her. His entire body was shaking. He didn't want to do anything that stupid, but his body yearned to do it. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his spine in the strain of restraint.

"Well, come on, now! You know you want to do it!" Donovan said, goading him into an action he would surely regret. "Do you want to be considered a coward by all of London for the rest of your days -- and beyond?"

At that moment, Molly could well have been said to save the day. She came running into the break room. "Lestrade --" she began, and then stopped. Her tone of voice changed abruptly, to one tinged with fear and concern rather than urgency. "Sherlock? What's -- are you okay?"

"You bothered to ask that when it is clear that he isn't?" Donovan asked, her tone scathing. "Is he that special so as to merit that kind of attention? Why would he even merit that kind of attention?"

"If you paid attention, you would know the answer to that last question," Molly said offhandedly, her tone terse. Even I don't really know the answer, she thought, but shoved it aside. "Sherlock?"

"No. I'm . . . not okay. She's egging me on . . . I don't want to do it . . . But I have to . . . I have to hurt her for what she said . . ." he murmured.

"Donovan, what have you done?!" Molly exclaimed, spinning toward the woman.

A spark suddenly turned into a bonfire in Donovan's mind. Her hands shot out, and her fingers wrapped around Molly's throat. She tightened her grip until Molly had to struggle valiantly to breathe. "I did nothing except for this," she said.

Molly glanced at Sherlock, still turned away and trembling, and Donovan laughed. "Oh, he won't help you. He's too far away. He's in his mind -- in that mind castle thing he keeps talking about all the time. Gets bloody annoying."

This last had the effect Donovan had hoped for. Sherlock spun around. "It's a mind palace, and I have spoken of it exactly once. I am surprised you remembered," he said. His nostrils flared slightly, and he grabbed and twisted Donovan's right wrist. The effect had gone horribly out of sorts terrifyingly quickly -- for Donovan. The situation improved quite a bit for Molly at the same time.

"Bloody hell!" Donovan shouted, letting go of Molly's neck. Sherlock dropped her wrist and turned his attention to her shoulders, pulling her roughly away from Molly. As a result, she hit the wall, but not hard.

Molly stood in shock, breathing deeply. Sherlock stood over Donovan, and said, "If you lay a single finger on her again, you will not see the next movement of the sun." When he turned around, he found himself on the verge of tears. He was distracted from that irksome revelation by Molly, who stood completely still and silent. He approached her, and she flinched away from him before realising who he was. Sherlock embraced her without even thinking, and that was when she began to shake.

He reluctantly let go after a moment and knelt, fixing his gaze on her huge brown eyes, which welled with tears. Inwardly, he was proud of her for her emotional strength -- that was something he hadn't thought she had. "Molly," he whispered, "are you alright?"

She nodded.

"Does it hurt to speak or swallow?"

This time, her nodding was vigorous.

"I'm sorry. I truly am. It was no one's fault but my own that you got hurt. I'm so sorry."

"Stop with the pity party and answer me this -- why do you treat her as if she's special, too?" Donovan demanded harshly, struggling to regain purchase on the floor while wearing her stilettos. Sherlock could have told her that it would have been much easier for her to stand had she taken them off, but he wasn't about to give her advice. Not after what she had just done.

Needless to say, Sherlock didn't answer her. "Come on," he whispered, beckoning Molly to follow him.


End file.
